Bria clapped her hands to her face to hide her flushing cheeks. Goodness, she couldn’t say a word about the kiss. He didn’t care about it. She had asked him to humor her. That was all. Nothing more. She must stop thinking about accursed kissing.
His Grace had told the lady’s maid he was merely congratulating me. Even if it was a lovely, unforgettable kiss. Impassioned, bone melting…
She glared at herself in the mirror.
It meant nothing to him.
How could she think it could possibly have meant more than the granting of one wish—at most, an expression of appreciation? Dance was her master. Nothing else.
“I’m going thank him for his generosity and tell him to go away.” After rouging her lips, Bria headed for the door.
“Don’t forget your cloak,” said Pauline, “or your gloves…or your bonnet.”
“I do not need them.”
“Yes, you do.”
Not listening, Bria followed the boy down to the entry. Not surprisingly, Florrie was making a nuisance of herself, batting her eyelashes at Ravenscar. As usual, the dancer wore a low-cut gown, stood with her shoulders back, displaying what cleavage she could. Obviously, she was wasting no time laying claim to her targeted duke.
Pocket watch in hand and tapping his foot, His Grace looked anything but amused.
As soon as he looked up, he grinned, blast him. The man must stand in front of the mirror and practice his smile. Such a mien was too irresistible for anyone of the female variety. “Ah, Miss LeClair. It is lovely to see you this morn.” He grasped her elbow and brushed past Florrie who stood gaping like a jealous lover snubbed.
Bria shot an apologetic grimace to the dancer while trying to tug her arm away. “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace, but I am perfectly able to purchase my own clothing.”
“Nonsense,” he said, squeezing his fingers and practically dragging her outside. “We are going to the modiste. It is all arranged.”
The coachman opened the door to a shiny post chaise.
Before stepping on the stool, Bria was finally able to draw her arm away. “But I need—”
“Your cloak and gloves, my lady,” said Pauline with a teasing curtsy. Bless her, she knew there’d be no stopping Ravenscar, especially with his determined grinning.
“Thank you.” Bria blew her a kiss. “You are so dear to me, my friend.”
After tipping his hat, His Grace offered his hand and helped her inside where he then sat opposite. “I never care to be alone in the presence of that woman again.”
“Florrie?”
“The one who played Effie in the ballet.”
“I see. But she has the pedigree you were so interested in. Her father is a choreographer for the Paris Opera and her mother a famous soprano.”
“I don’t care if she’s the daughter of King William.”
Bria ran the curtain tie-back through her fingers—heavens, it was made of gold silk. “That’s quite a shame, she will be disappointed.”
“Does she make a habit of engaging noblemen in conversation?”
“Only those who might be interested in…” Bria couldn’t say it.
“Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Did you see this morning’s headlines?”
“I haven’t.”
He picked up a paper beside him on the bench and smiled. Again. Were young ladies permitted to tell dukes not to smile? Before she could ask, he cleared his throat. “The Times says, ‘LeClair dazzles and shocks in the most acclaimed ballet of the century’.” He traded one paper for another. “And the Gazette says, ‘Exotic romp through Scotland, LeClair’s dancing is nothing shy of scandalous’.”
A stone sank to the pit of Bria’s stomach. “The Gazette didn’t sound complimentary.”
“On the contrary. People will be queuing around the theater for tickets to see something exotic, bordering on scandalous.”
“I hope you are right.”
“I am.” He stared at her as if there were nothing else in the carriage at which to look. Why not read the next article from the paper still in his grasp—anything but staring directly at her with those shocking blue eyes? But it seemed he’d done his reading for the day and was more intent on smiling and looking far too tempting. His lips glimmered with moisture, pursed in a very self-assured expression, and every bit as kissable as they had been last eve.
Bria glanced away. “I don’t like being referred to as scandalous. My dancing is art. There is nothing shameful about it.”
He set the paper aside. “I agree.”
Perhaps she ought to change the subject. “So, as I tried to say before you all but abducted me, I am perfectly able to purchase my own clothing.”
“Last eve, you said you had no money for a new gown.”
Not ready to tell him about the twenty pounds from Lady Calthorpe, Bria thought up her next best excuse. “Once I receive my wages—”
Ravenscar held up his palm, stopping her mid-sentence. “I said I would replace your gown and I am a man of my word. Please allow me to fulfill my promise.” He pinched a bit of her skirt between his fingers. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that I have now seen you in three different dresses, each of which is…” He waved the cloth like a flag, his lips twisting as if he’d stopped himself from saying something crass. “Dash it, my servants are better clothed.”
She batted his hand away. “I beg your pardon. This dress is nearly new.” It wasn’t. After paying an investigator in Paris, Bria hadn’t enough coin to buy any dresses in the past year, but she wasn’t about to own to it. “We wouldn’t, by chance, be venturing past Harding, Howell and Company, would we?”
One black eyebrow shot up. “Our first stop—to purchase material, then on to my mother’s modiste.”
Bria smoothed her skirts where he’d pinched the fabric. Perhaps she would be allowed in the shop after all. “It is very thoughtful for you to be concerned about my wardrobe.”
“That’s better.” He sat back with a discerning eye.
“Though it isn’t necessary.”
“I deem it is. It is in my interest to see that you present favorably to society.”
“Do you think if I go about town in pretty dresses people will like me better?”
“It has nothing to do with what other people like. Well…not exactly. Polite society expects a certain decorum. There are rules. Boundaries which mustn’t be crossed. I’m sure my mother’s soiree last eve is only one of many parties to which you will be invited and you, as the theater’s diva, must play the part both on and off stage.”
“I suppose you’re right. Only this morning I received a number of invitations. So many I couldn’t possibly attend them all.”
“To where, may I ask, have you been invited?”
“Ah…” Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so hasty to boast about the pile of missives she left on her bed. “I haven’t even opened all the letters yet.” Bria drummed her fingers, trying to recall. “There’s a luncheon at Vauxhall, a tea hosted by Lady Eloise, and Lord Fordham asked me to go riding in Hyde Park with him this afternoon—”
“Fordham?” The duke pounded his fist on the bench. “That brigand.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“Of late I wonder. I would steer clear of the earl if I were you. He has a reputation as a rake.”
“I see.” Bria sniggered. “Perhaps he should ask Florrie to go riding.”
The duke chuckled. “Your sense of humor is delightful, Miss LeClair. I shall suggest Miss Bisset to him right after I tell him to stop badgering you.”
“I hardly call an invitation to go for a ride in the man’s phaeton badgering.”
“You don’t know Thomas Newport. His invitation was only a precursor to spirit you alone so that he can take liberties.” Ravenscar tugged down his cuffs. “You’ll find propriety in England is far more rigid than it is in France.”
“Oh? Can you give me an example?”
“First of all, riding in Fordham’s phaet
on would draw a great deal of—ah—attention.”
Bria spread her arms wide, gesturing from one wall of the carriage to the other. “Am I not riding in your carriage? Surely that is more scandalous in England than riding in an open carriage like a phaeton?”
“Our situation is completely different. You are in my employ.”
“So, in London society, such an arrangement is permissible because of our master-servant status?”
“I deem it is.”
“Then I venture to guess it was completely proper for you to come to your sister’s chamber last eve.”
“No.” His eyes shifted aside, as if he harbored regret for his actions. “I must ask your forgiveness for last night. That was a mistake.”
Her stomach churned. Bria couldn’t look at him. Of course, he’d only kissed her because she’d asked him to. And she had no reason to believe the gesture had meant anything to him. “I thought as much,” she forced herself to say, trying to sound unaffected.
“Nonetheless, I suggest that until you are familiar with London society, you discuss your engagements with me prior to accepting them.”
She considered his request for a moment. On one hand it made sense because she wasn’t completely familiar with England and all their societal rules—in France, with the Revolution and the Napoleon Wars, too many of the nobility had been lost, too many men as well, making it impossible for women of Bria’s class to worry about having an escort for everything. On the other hand, reporting her engagements to Ravenscar was downright awkward and imposing. She would be in London for months and the last thing she needed was His Grace overseeing her affairs.
She crossed her ankles, the gesture making her toes brush the tips of his boots—contact that sent gooseflesh rising across her skin. “I’m sure you are far too busy to concern yourself with something as trivial as my engagements,” she said, trying to sound in control, giving no indication of the queasy grands jetés performing in her insides.
“Hmm.” His gaze met hers, but it wasn’t blasé or impassive. His eyes were as dark and intense as they had been last eve. “Perhaps you’re right. But do not hesitate to ask if you have any doubt about an invitation. Case in point, Fordham’s request to go riding—or any man’s invitation for that matter.”
Perhaps she’d misread his expression. Did he look at every woman with such intensity and then carry on with the conversation as if his gazes were passionless and reticent?
“Thank heavens I’ll be in rehearsal this afternoon.” Bria looked out the window just as the carriage passed a sign that read, “Private Inquiry Office”. “What street is this?” she asked.
Leaning forward, His Grace glanced out. “Regent.”
She made a mental note. There were definitely a few things she wanted to accomplish herself without her employer’s watchful eye. What if she turned up something about her past she’d rather keep under wraps? Thus far, the only person who knew about Bria’s keepsakes was Pauline. Now definitely was no time to reveal her secret. With the papers distorting the truth, who knew what they might report if her inquiries became common knowledge?
Chapter Nine
“Ah, Miss LeClair, we’ve been expecting you,” said Mr. Harding, coming out from behind the counter of his haberdashery.
A tad confused, Drake looked from the shop owner to Britannia. Had his mother sent word ahead? “They were expecting you?”
She shrugged, giving nothing away. “Was the incident with the glass of wine in the newspapers as well?”
“It was not.”
Two ladies stared in disbelief while Mr. Harding pulled Britannia deeper into the shop. “I attended the ballet last night and your performance was nothing short of extraordinary.”
Drake rubbed his thumbs under his lapels and gave the women a tepid bow, right before they sidled out the door.
“This is abominable. I cannot believe the clientele they have stooped to entertain, and on Pall Mall,” said a pretentious, elderly woman. She and her accomplice moved to the perfumery rather than the exit.
Drake recognized the woman as the wife of Mr. Wainthorpe. New money, and obviously inflated with her own self-importance. He moved near enough to speak quietly. “Perhaps you’ll find the patrons more to your liking at Leicester Square. After all, I have never been in the company of others when my rank was not lofty enough for my peers.”
Mrs. Wainthorpe huffed. “I was not referring to you, Your Grace.”
He gave a cursory bow of his head. “Did you attend last night’s opening at Chadwick Theater?”
Her arrogant nose turned up with her sniff. “I most certainly did not.”
“I see. Then might I suggest you refrain from being so generous with your opinions until you actually have an idea regarding the subject upon which you are speaking.”
“Ah.” Turning a shade of chartreuse, the woman practically gagged on her own indignation. “I have never been thus insulted in my life…and by a duke of all people. Wait until my husband hears about this.” She snatched her companion’s elbow and started for the door.
Drake followed. “Please do give Mr. Wainthorpe my regards. And let him know he is welcome to join me in my box for tonight’s performance of La Sylphide.”
Once Mrs. Wainthorpe fled out the door, Drake took a good look around the shop for any other snobbish prudes who might be lurking. Fortunately, the remainder of the patrons were tending to their own affairs.
Mr. Harding had taken Britannia to the rear of the shop where they were looking at fabric. Drake hastened toward them. “To begin with, Miss LeClair will need a ball gown, an evening gown, two day gowns, matching trimmings, and a cloak.”
“Mais non.” Shaking her head, Britannia slashed a parasol through the air as if it were a foil. “One evening gown. At these prices, I can afford no more—and I’ve yet to pay a modiste.”
“What makes you think you’re paying?” Drake asked. “As I said earlier, it is in the interest of Chadwick Theater for you to present well in public as our premier ballerina. You are a diva—one of England’s most acclaimed guests and must be attired accordingly.” Drake snapped his fingers at Mr. Harding. “Miss LeClair’s expenses shall be invoiced to me.”
Britannia reached inside her reticule and pulled out a missive. “But I have—”
“I’ll hear no argument.”
“Very well.” She replaced the document. “I’ll allow Chadwick Theater to intervene this once only.”
Mr. Harding licked his lips, all too anxious to show them the latest fabrics and matching fans, gloves, hats and reticules. After a good two hours of selecting the finest of everything Harding, Howell and Company had to offer, Drake escorted Britannia a few blocks to the modiste for measurements.
“I do appreciate your generosity, but last night you said you would replace one gown. That would have been enough. What are people going to think? You purchased an entire new wardrobe on my behalf, not to mention all the accessories to go with them. They will assume the worst.”
The same thought had passed through Drake’s mind, though he’d discounted it. Besides, let the vultures think what they like. Perhaps if Fordham believed Britannia to be Ravenscar’s mistress, the rake would set his sights on Miss Bisset or one of the other dancers. “People will assume what they will. I care not. Ours is a professional relationship and that’s what matters.”
“To you.” She walked on at a ferocious pace. “I’m not enamored with the idea of people thinking I am your mistress when I am not.”
Drake lengthened his stride. “Would you like to be? Rhetorically speaking, of course.” Damnation, the words passed his lips before he had a chance to swallow them. What a nonsensical thing to ask.
She stopped, thrusting her fists downward. “Absolutely not! Aside from the fact that I hardly know you, I have no intention of becoming anyone’s mistress. Ever!”
Drake grinned. Had they not been standing on a busy footpath, he might hug her and whirl her around in circles. Fordham be damned
. Perhaps his question wasn’t as shortsighted as he’d thought. Her conviction gave him a great deal of ease. He would stand beside his commitment to avoid becoming involved with anyone at Chadwick Theater, and he needn’t worry about his lecherous friends…for the most part. Though he would be keeping a very close eye on their activities where Miss LeClair was concerned.
It was unfortunate his mother hadn’t introduced him to any ladies with Britannia’s fortitude, however. When he did decide to marry, he sincerely hoped to find someone with her pluck, her spirit, her stamina. Confident, virtuous, hard-working and determined to succeed—he barely knew the woman yet had uncovered many redeeming qualities. She was certainly an inspiration for other young ladies eager for a profession in the performing arts.
After arriving at the boarding house much later than she’d intended, Pauline met Bria in the entry. “Have you been with the duke all along? ’Tis almost time for rehearsal.”
Bria glanced at the floor clock at the end of the corridor. “If I’d known it was going to take so much time, I would have insisted on going on one of our rest days.”
“We haven’t a moment to lose or we’ll miss our warm up.”
“Heaven forbid. Monsieur Travere will start recruiting replacements for us both.”
Bria gave her parcels to the houseboy and paid him a halfpenny to take them up to her room.
Pauline tugged her out the door. “Did you hear? The entire troupe has been invited to a private ball to be held by Edward Hughes—word is his estate is magnificent. He inherited a vast fortune from his stepfather who was an admiral of all things.”
“Truly?”
“Oui, a fortnight hence on a Monday when the theater is dark.” Pauline leaped with a little jeté. “I am so looking forward to it!”
Bria looped her arm through her friend’s elbow. “And we’ll have a whole day to prepare. C’est manifique!”
Florrie met them at the stage door. “Here’s the prima donna come from her trip to the elite modiste. What was it like to rub elbows with England’s nobility? Did the duke give you a French kiss?”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 184